


For the Count

by EntreNous



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Developing Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-04
Updated: 2004-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Even as he fell asleep, with Spike’s arm thrown over his side as they lay curled around each other, even when he woke up with those blue eyes watching and burning into his, he knew.  Spike wouldn’t stick around."</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Count

**Author's Note:**

> For wesleysgirl, who wanted Xander "following his time-honored tradition of putting his hand through a wall when he's upset."

After he’d had sex with Spike that first night, in the moments after the aftershocks of his orgasm wound through his body, Xander thought that more than anything he wanted this, whatever this was, to last. He wanted Spike there with him always; he wanted it to happen again and again and . . .

And who was he kidding? It had been a one-time thing between them, nothing more than that. Even as he fell asleep, with Spike’s arm thrown over his side as they lay curled around each other, even when he woke up with those blue eyes watching and burning into his, he knew. Spike wouldn’t stick around.

So the next night, sure, it happened again, but there was no guarantee that a second time meant anything, right? Especially not when they hadn’t talked about what was happening between them before Spike turned up, unannounced and scowling. When Spike backed him into the bedroom, stripped off Xander’s clothes with such urgency that Xander had grasped Spike’s shoulders, dizzy from the rush, he tried to remind himself that both times this hadn’t started with anything like a real date or even an awkward confession of _I like you. Do you . . . like me that way too?_ Not something that would happen again. 

But happen again it did, for the third night in a row, and when Spike thrust forward, jaw set in concentration, eyes open wide and then shut tight like he’d run along a building ledge and leapt over the edge, Xander bit his lip and kept his eyes open, watched avidly because he wanted to remember how Spike looked during the moment when he came inside of him. Because it probably wouldn’t happen ever again.

Except it did. The next night, and the next day, it happened.

But when there were three nights during which Xander didn’t see Spike, he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and thought, _okay, that’s it, it’s all over, whatever the hell it was in the first place_. And if his hands shook when he reached for his toothbrush, if he ended up face dipped down towards the sink, splashing his eyes with water because they stung, and if he drank glass after glass of water because his throat felt like it was going to close in on itself, none of that meant he hadn’t seen this coming from the get go. Nothing was going to turn what had been for Spike a convenient series of fucks into caring for him.

But then Spike was there the next night, looking so soft and hard all at once; sharp edges of muscle and cheekbones standing out in the dim light, the startling rich depths of his eyes as he reached up to twine his fingers in Xander’s hair and bring their foreheads together with a shuddering breath. And Xander didn’t ask what was up, where he’d been, why there had been the gap, because this was probably the last time, and he just wanted to experience it so that he could keep that memory, to play in his head on nights when he was alone and the bed seemed very wide.

Then there was a week gone by, Spike sharing his bed almost every night, and then two weeks had passed and Spike had a stack of dusty yellowed paperbacks that he’d left on the lower shelf of Xander’s night table. 

Three weeks, and Xander could feel himself on the verge of relaxing. Spike showed up late at night if they hadn’t patrolled together, showed up just after dusk if there was no patrol at all to watch movies and roll his eyes at Xander’s collection of CDs. A few times he even showed up in the middle of patrol, ignoring Buffy’s sarcastic quips and Willow’s guarded looks to fall into step beside Xander, face set and grim, but eyes soft and bright when Xander got the nerve to meet his gaze.

Four weeks, five, and then six passed in a blur of work and patrols and sex and Spike, and Xander had just about convinced himself to stop counting. 

Then the seventh week they were out at the Bronze, and some girl with shiny straight black hair bought Spike a drink and made him laugh harder than Xander had heard in a long time. She’d joined them at the table, and when Riley and Buffy arrived a while later Xander flung himself into their conversation with desperation, trying to block out the way the girl was tightening her hand around Spike’s arm, the way Spike was leaning forward to speak into her ear, his lips twisted into a suggestive smile. 

When he realized that he was no longer paying attention to Buffy’s tale of humiliation in front of her entire literature class but was instead staring at the clock on the wall watching the minutes tick by slowly, he waited until Spike left to get another drink, grabbed his coat and took off.

Stupid, stupid, he cursed himself the whole way back behind the wheel. He was stupid for letting the time slide, for not realizing that the end of this mess had always been near, for even through all of his worries somehow counting on Spike in his life.

He got home, getting the key to open the door at last after a bout of wills between his trembling hands and the lock. Now, he told himself, things could get back to normal. Not having to edge around the fissures that he knew would eventually shake and shatter them apart, not having to measure how much further they had lasted than he had expected. 

But there in his apartment his heart sank as he realized how much of Spike was all around him -- his favorite beer in the refrigerator, a pad of paper by the telephone bearing his intricate doodles, a side of the bed that Xander had come to think of as Spike’s. 

He stood stock-still, his jacket half off. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard his keys clattering as they fell to the ground. And in the darkness he felt himself turn swiftly, but until his fist connected with plaster, sending a shock of pain all the way up his arm, he hadn’t realized what his body was doing. A dry sob escaped his throat, and he reeled back, nearly tripping over his legs and falling when suddenly someone was behind him, catching him.

Xander hadn’t even heard him come in.

Spike said nothing; he just turned him around, took Xander’s bruised and bloody hand in both of his and then looked up at Xander, his eyes glittering in the dark. 

Xander drew in a sharp breath, shaking his head at the wrongness of this moment, knowing Spike was not supposed to be here, not with him. Not after tonight, not after something had come to shed light upon the anomaly of what had been nearly two months of them tenuously and temporarily joined. 

Spike ignored the wordless protestation, just pushed him gently into the bathroom, perched him on the edge of the tub and knelt to work on patching his hand. Xander sat and watched those elegant fingers as they played over his mangled knuckles, stealing an occasional look at the grim set to Spike’s jaw as he worked.

The last of the ointment applied, the last of the bandages smoothed into place, and Spike pressed his lips gently to the broken skin, the gauze and tape. When he stood and held out his own hand, Xander unthinkingly put his undamaged one forward and, suddenly docile, followed Spike to the bedroom.

Spike frowned in concentration and took some time arranging things until Xander lay on the side of his good hand with the bandaged one resting on a stack of pillows in front of him. Then Spike curled behind him, lips against the nape of his neck and arm flung over Xander’s torso. And as Xander fell asleep, lulled by the brush of fingers stroking against his stomach, he felt something relax and give inside of him until all he was counting were Spike’s unnecessary, measured breaths.


End file.
